Chapter 8

Griffin

I stand there watching Anya's tail lights, feeling like an asshole. She put herself out there. Put her feelings on the line and I crushed them.

My head falls back as I scrub my face. I had no idea she was attracted to me. Which makes this that much worse. If she wasn't Callum's sister, I would've slammed my lips to hers. I would've pulled her against me, sinking my fingers into her hair while I deepened the kiss. She would've had no doubt about how I feel about her.

But, she is Callum's sister and I made a promise that I can not break.

I climb into my truck and once the door is closed I slam my hands against the steering wheel. "Fuck."

As I drive home the image of Anya leaning in to kiss me plays over and over in my head. My anger rises. I'm pissed at myself for denying her. I'm pissed at Callum for making me promise something I now regret.

Another man, a better man, would have followed her home and tried to explain himself. But as I pull into my driveway, I shake my head. Even if I was that man, what could I say? I can't tell her that her brother has put her in the off-limits category. I can't tell her that not kissing her back is something that will haunt me for the rest of my life. The only thing I could do is lie and tell her I don't feel that way about her and I'm sure she'd see the sham in my eyes.

My mother didn't teach me much, but she always told me not to lie. Which is a fucking joke because her entire life was a lie.

I grab a Kunt Kicker IPA out of the fridge and sit down on my dark navy couch. After taking a long pull, I sigh, closing my eyes. I make it a point to block out as much of my childhood as possible, but feeling like I've hurt Anya, makes it impossible to keep those times pushed down.

Growing up in my house was the equivalent of walking around a minefield. One misstep and everything would blow up.

Ever heard the saying ‘walking on eggshells?' Well my life was walking on the whole damn egg, a mess no matter which way you saw it.

My father was an angry man, a storm always on the horizon. If he wasn't happy, no one was happy. A loud child running around laughing wasn't something he appreciated. He didn't like a messy house. Toys scattered on the floor, and snacks left on the table, were just unacceptable to him. He liked silence. He liked order. Things that a child doesn't give you. Every noise, every cluttered space was an affront to his need for control and tranquility.

My mother catered to him, making sure he got everything he wanted. I couldn't be loud, I couldn't make a mess, I couldn't be a kid. I remember tiptoeing around the house, holding my breath, hoping not to disturb the fragile peace. I couldn't laugh freely, couldn't let my imagination spill into my surroundings. I couldn't be happy.

I'm not entirely sure when my father started cheating on my mother, but it happened. Perhaps it was inevitable. I'm sure he liked the idea of pretending he didn't have a wife and kid at home, responsibilities that he felt shackled by. He was always chasing after younger women, women with no kids, women who represented the freedom and adoration he craved. It was his way of escaping the life he resented.

My mother just pretended none of it was happening. The cheating, the way he treated me, the way he treated her. She walked about this town smiling and lying about what a great life she had. She wore her denial like a mask, plastering over the cracks in our family's fa?ade. I would watch her, wondering how she could smile while our world was crumbling, how she could act as if everything was fine while I felt suffocated by the tension and sadness. Her pretense was a survival tactic, a desperate attempt to keep our fractured lives from falling apart completely.

You'd think with his wandering dick, clean house, quiet child, and a wife that was at his beck and call it would make him happy.

It didn't.

He was still a miserable prick. I spent far too much time hiding in my room, afraid of what I might get in trouble for. One time I brought a couple of little cars out to the living room while he was out fucking someone. It was the most fun. I drove those little cars all over the place. The living room was so much bigger than my bedroom, and I remember I even laughed a few times when the cars sped across the floor, their tiny wheels spinning wildly. For a brief moment, I felt happy. It was fleeting because my mother ran into the room, panic etched on her face, yelling at me to bring the cars back into my room. I grabbed them and ran, closing my door behind me. Disappointment crashed over me because even at that young age, I knew that feeling of freedom and happiness would not return.

I was right. When my father got home, his face contorted with anger, he pushed my bedroom door open, holding one of my little cars. In my rush to hide, I hadn't noticed I left one behind. He shouted, telling me little boys who can't clean up don't get to have nice things. All the while, he gathered every car I had and threw them away. The sight of my toys disappearing into the trash was a punch to the gut, a cruel end to my brief joy.

That was the first night I learned what leather against skin felt like. The belt whistled through the air before it bit into my flesh, the pain searing through me. I sat quietly in the corner, my body trembling, until he finally left my room. Only then did I allow the tears to fall, silent sobs shaking my small frame. They didn't stop until exhaustion claimed me and I fell asleep, my body aching, my spirit crushed.

I shake my head, bringing myself back to the present. That was the life Callum saved me from. Without him, I don't think I would've survived. He didn't even know what was going on at my house until years later, but he started inviting me to his house. Callum's home was a sanctuary, a place where laughter wasn't punished, and messes weren't met with rage. Of course, my mother was all too happy to have me gone, so it was never a fight. She saw it as one less thing to manage, one less target for my father's wrath.

Callum's friendship was a lifeline. His family welcomed me in, never questioning the frequency of my visits. In their home, I experienced a kindness and warmth that was foreign to me. It was there, in those stolen moments of peace and safety, that I began to heal, slowly piecing together the shattered fragments of my childhood.

I stayed at the Atwood house, pretending they were my real family. The kids were loud and happy. There was laughter, talking, and endless amounts of fun. The Atwood home was a symphony of joy and chaos, the complete opposite of the oppressive silence of my own home. When I was there, I felt that happiness that had been thrown in the trash, a happiness that had once seemed out of reach.

As we got older and I confided in Callum about how awful my house was, he never judged me or my shitty parents. He just listened, his face a mask of concern and understanding, never interrupting, never making me feel small for sharing my pain. He invited me over every chance he got, offering me an escape from the hell I lived in. I slept on a blowup mattress on his bedroom floor more than I slept in the bed at my house, and I loved it. That thin mattress was more comfortable than my own bed because it came with a sense of safety and belonging.

The Atwoods treated me like one of their own. Mrs. Atwood always made sure I had enough to eat, her warm smile and gentle words a stark contrast to my mother's cold indifference. Mr. Atwood would ruffle my hair and ask me about school, genuinely interested in my life. In their home, I found the family I wished I had.

So, when Callum made me promise I wouldn't date his sister, I didn't take it lightly. Callum saved me, offering me a lifeline when I was drowning in despair, and there's no way in hell I'll ever forget that. It doesn't matter how I feel about Anya, because I can't cross that line. My feelings for her are strong, but my loyalty to Callum is stronger. He's my brother in every way that counts, and betraying his trust isn't an option.

Every time I look at Anya, I remind myself of the promise I made. She's beautiful, kind, and everything I could ever want, but I owe Callum too much to risk it. The bond we share, forged in the fires of my troubled past, is something I'll never take for granted. Anya will always be a dream I can't pursue, a reminder of the sacrifices I'm willing to make for the one person who saved me from my own personal hell.

It's been almost a week since I denied Anya's kiss, and I haven't seen her once. Part of me is relieved because I still don't know what to say, but another part of me, a bigger part, misses her sweeping into the kitchen with her big smile, her energy lighting up the room. The kitchen feels emptier without her, the air heavy with the unspoken tension between us.

There's a party this weekend, and we haven't discussed the menu. I know it's because she's avoiding me, and I hate that it's now affecting our work. Our usual effortless collaboration has turned into an awkward dance of avoidance, each of us tiptoeing around the other.

"Griff, you have plans after work?" Callum asks, walking into the kitchen, breaking my train of thought.

I wipe my hands on the white towel and turn my back on the potatoes I was cutting. I lean against the counter and lift an eyebrow. "No, why?"

"My mom just called and invited us for dinner," he says, shrugging as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

"On a Wednesday?" I reply, my surprise evident in my voice.

He grabs a piece of bread off the counter and takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully before responding. "Yeah."

Atwood Sunday family dinners are a huge thing, a tradition steeped in warmth and togetherness, but Wednesday night dinners are something I've never been invited to. This unexpected invitation sends a jolt of anxiety through me. What could it mean? Is this just a casual dinner, or is there something more to it?

As I mull over the possibilities, I can't shake the feeling that this dinner might be more than just a meal. The tension between Anya and me is palpable, and I worry that her family has picked up on it. The thought of facing her tonight, in the intimacy of her family's home, fills me with a mixture of dread and anticipation.

Callum finishes his bread and looks at me expectantly, waiting for my answer. "Sure," I finally say, trying to sound casual, though my mind is racing.

"Great," he replies with a grin. "We'll head over right after work."

"This is something you guys do often?"

He shakes his head, a seriousness settling in his eyes. "No, never. I'm worried she has bad news and wants you there to help me through it."

Shit.

I nod, crossing my arms. "I'm there. What time?"

"She said around six, but I told her there's no way we could slip out that early."

"Some things are more important than work, Callum. I'll get everything prepped, and my team will be able to handle it. Tell her we'll be there."

One thing I know for sure is that life is fragile. If Carol needs us, we need to be there. To hell with everything else. The Atwood's have done so much for me; the least I can do is show up when they need me.

"You sure?" he asks, reaching for a piece of cheese from the platter on the counter.

"Yeah, buddy, I'm sure." I chuckle as he pops the cheese into his mouth. "You want me to make you something to eat?"

He grins, shaking his head. "Nah, this cheese will do for now. But thanks."

As I watch Callum, I'm reminded of the countless times he and his family have been my refuge. I can't help but think about what this dinner might mean. Could Carol have sensed the tension between Anya and me? Is this her way of addressing it, or is it simply a routine family gathering that I've been fortunate enough to be included in? The uncertainty gnaws at me, but I push it aside. Carol needs us, and that's what matters.

"I need to get back to the office and make sure everything is in order so we can leave early." He forces a grin before walking toward the door. He turns his head and says, "Thanks, Griff."

"Hey, no thanks needed."

He leaves the kitchen, and my mind wanders to what this dinner could be about. Is it a casual invitation, or is there something more behind it? The Atwood's aren't the type to hold formal interventions, but the timing and the unusual midweek gathering make me uneasy.

I push all the thoughts buzzing through my head aside and get to work preparing everything for my crew. They are perfectly capable of handling a night without me, so I'm not worried. Still, I want to ensure everything runs smoothly in my absence. I meticulously go through the prep list, double-checking every detail. From the ingredients for the weekend party to the tasks for each team member, I leave nothing to chance.

It also helps keep my mind occupied as time goes by. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the precise measuring of spices, and the organization of the kitchen are all distractions from the uncertainty of the evening ahead. As I work, my thoughts drift back to Anya, her smile, and the way she lights up a room. I wonder how she feels about seeing me tonight. Has she been avoiding me as deliberately as I've been avoiding her?

I set up the stations, ensuring everyone knows their responsibilities. My team is a well-oiled machine, each member skilled and reliable. I trust them implicitly, which makes it easier to step away, knowing they'll handle any challenge that comes their way.

"All right, guys," I call out as I gather my things. "I'm heading out for the evening. You've got everything you need, and I'm just a phone call away if anything comes up."

They nod and smile, giving me reassuring thumbs-ups and quick waves. Their confidence boosts my own, and I feel a bit more at ease as I leave the kitchen.

Callum walks into the kitchen just as I'm unbuttoning my chef's coat.

"Ready?" I ask him.

"Yeah," he says, glancing at his phone.

He hops into his car, and I climb into my truck, my stomach in knots the entire time. I'm hoping it's nothing serious, but preparing myself for the worst. I'll need to be the rock for all the Atwoods; it's the least I can do after everything they've done for me.

When we park in front of the Atwood family home, I stare at the big white house. It's always been a beacon of light in my dark life, and tonight is no different. Its welcoming presence calms me a bit, but I can't shake the anxiety gnawing at my insides.

We get out and meet on the brick walkway that leads to the front door. "It's gonna be all right, Cal," I say, slapping his back, trying to sound confident.

"Yeah," he mutters, but his voice lacks conviction.

The front door opens before we even reach it, and Carol stands there with a huge smile on her face. "I'm so glad you could both make it," she says warmly.

Callum doesn't say anything, just wraps her in a tight hug. I need to look away so my emotions don't get the better of me. Seeing their bond always tugs at my heartstrings, reminding me of what I missed out on growing up.

"Callum, what's wrong, son?" Carol asks, her smile fading into a look of concern as she holds him.

I step inside behind them and see the worry on her face. "We're here now, Mom. Just tell us," Callum says, his voice steady but with an edge of urgency.

Her brows furrow as she looks between us, confusion evident. "Tell you what?"

"Carol, we're here for you," I add, my voice gentle yet firm, trying to convey that we're ready for whatever news she has.

She looks puzzled for a moment, then laughs softly. "Oh, boys, there's nothing wrong. You two are always so thoughtful. I invited you to dinner because Tripp is out and your father and I are going out for a fancy dinner, and I didn't want Anya eating alone."

Callum steps back, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. "You're kidding, right? You didn't actually pull us away from work because you want us to babysit?"

She hits him lightly with the kitchen towel she's holding as she smiles. "Your sister doesn't need to be babysat, silly boy. She needs company. She's been a little down." Her soft eyes slide to mine, and I feel myself stiffen. "I think she just needs a friend."

My heart cracks in my chest, knowing I'm the reason she's feeling this way. The guilt weighs heavily on me, each glance from Carol a reminder of the turmoil I've caused.

"Mom, what the hell? There's nothing wrong with you? You aren't dying? No one is dying?" Callum yells, his voice echoing through the hallway.

It sounds muffled to me, though, as I keep thinking of Anya. The image of her smile haunts me, a stark contrast to the sadness Carol hinted at.

"Callum Atwood, don't raise your voice to me," Carol scolds, her tone firm. "You need to realize what an asset your sister is to that brewery. She needs to hear it. So stop being such a hardhead and do what you know is right." She shakes her head and looks at me. "Griffin, you're here to keep them from going at each other's throats."

"Mom..." Callum starts, but she holds up her hand as Don walks down the stairs.

"Dinner is ready. It's staying warm in the oven. Anya is in the shower, so it would be nice if you had everything set for her when she gets out." She tosses her apron at Callum and smiles. "Have fun."

A night with Anya and Callum. This really is bad news.

Callum catches the apron, grumbling under his breath as he heads to the kitchen. I follow, trying to shake off the unease that's settled in my gut. The kitchen is warm and inviting, the smell of lasagne and fresh bread filling the air. Callum starts pulling dishes from the oven, and I set the table, my movements automatic as my mind races.

"Dude, can you believe this?" Callum mutters, placing a few dishes on the counter. "All this fuss just because Anya's feeling a bit down?"

"She's your sister, Callum. Sometimes it's the little things that matter," I reply, trying to sound nonchalant. But inside, I'm a mess. I know I'm the reason she's feeling down, and it tears me apart.

We set everything up, and I can hear the faint sound of the shower running upstairs. My thoughts keep drifting to Anya, wondering how she'll react when she sees me. Will she be angry? Sad? Indifferent? The uncertainty is killing me.